


Silence, but for the stars

by Jenwryn



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Old Friends; New Benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:16:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They sit on Walt's porch, where the steps should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence, but for the stars

_When the days are cold_   
_And the cards all fold_   
_}_   
_I want to shelter you_

_Imagine Dragons.[Demons](http://youtu.be/mWRsgZuwf_8)._

*

“Walt.”

Henry’s voice breaks through the night and the familiar cadence of it grounds Walt with a rush, pulling him back from his fussing, pulling him back from his brooding; plugging him back in to the land of the living. This land, where the stars are big in a bigger sky, where the earth smells of sweet water and damp timber. This land, where Henry’s touch is steady – steadying – as he rests his hand lightly, a question, upon Walt’s left shoulder.

Walt’s heart thumps.

“Walt?” Henry is watching. Waiting. Here is his patience; here is his smile. Here is the blunt affection of his eyes as he looks down and looks _into_.

Walt exhales. Walt inhales. Walt looks up, and nods. Takes off his hat and settles her gently upon his knee. Scrubs a thumb against his hairline. Walt feels awkward, yet also not awkward. So little of this is new, and so much of this is old – nearly forty years of history, and the sun keeps count regardless of where they rest their bones. Walt lets Henry’s hand smooth from one shoulder to the next; relaxes, as Henry puts down roots next to Walt on the porch. On Walt’s porch, where the steps should be. Where there steps will be, one day soon, when Henry kicks Walt’s ass enough to make him make them. Henry’s touch is— good. Henry’s touch is good, and the weight of his arm rests across Walt’s shoulders like a well-loved blanket. Like something from a Doctor Leonard’s catalogue, except long-worn and comforting; at home, in Walt’s home.

Walt’s.

“Henry,” says Walt. Allows himself to rest his head, sideways, against Henry’s own. Allows himself to lean into Henry; shoulder to shoulder, side to side; close, against the warm certainty of the man and everything he stands for. Their heads are cool where they touch – air-chilled skin, cool brush of Henry’s hair against the bare side of Walt’s neck – but they will warm. Will warm, slowly, to match the temperature of Henry’s hand; of Henry’s fingers, gentle and unwavering beneath the curl of Walt’s collar.

And so they sit; together. Silent; but for the hum of the stars and the vast sky above them. Still; but for the light shift of Henry’s thigh, and Walt’s palm keeping solid count upon it.


End file.
